


in the blood that She has spilt

by the_other_lutece_sister



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Dracula AU, F/F, Vampires, propunk - Freeform, welcome to the I Want Rachel Duncan to Bite Me club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 13:20:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16787752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_other_lutece_sister/pseuds/the_other_lutece_sister
Summary: Very loosely based on Dracula by Bram Stoker, (or the first half of it maybe, it's been YEARS since I read it don't @me)Rachel is the Countess Dracula, Sarah is the Jonathon Harker character, it's propunk with Teeth.(title from BOADICEA, AN ODE. by William Cowper)edit: amazing art by kat for this fichereandhere





	in the blood that She has spilt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [piggy09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/piggy09/gifts).



> Happy birthday Natalie!!

Sarah sat at one end of a very long dining table and fiddled with one of the spoons. There were five spoons. She didn’t know why there were so many spoons when there was only one soup course, or why the soup was that colour, or why her hostess kept staring at her neck.

The Countess Dracula sat at the other end of the table, her eyes sharp, her gaze pointed, each word biting at the dusty air that lay between them. Every time her lips parted, her teeth....

Her teeth….

Sarah looked down at her soup, dipping a spoon into the purple-red liquid and feeling her stomach roil in protest. She could feel eyes on her but she didn’t look up, instead steeling herself and lifting a spoonful to her mouth.

It was surprisingly good.

Now she did look up. Her hostess - _do_ call me Rachel, she had murmured at their first meeting, you are my guest here, we do not need to stand on formalities, not when you are so very _far_ from home - was mirroring her actions, a spoon disappearing between her own lips. Sarah couldn’t quite tell from this distance but the soup at the other end of the table seemed much redder, more viscous.

A trick of the light, perhaps, what light there was.

Candles burned on every surface but neglected to illuminate the darkness of the impossibly high ceiling, instead causing shadows to twist and dance in every corner.

They reflected in the eyes of the Countess…of _Rachel,_ giving them a glittering hunger, yet offered the pale translucent skin of her face no colour. She was as beautiful as a marble statue, and just as warm.

When she had offered Sarah her hand at the introductions, it had been gloved in fine black lace, and even then the chill had seeped into her own fingers. There had been a hint of surprise in her voice - a _lady_ solicitor? ( _More of a clerk_ , Sarah should have told her, but didn’t, somehow _couldn’t_ ), How very _modern_ England has become - but nonetheless she had seemed nothing but pleased with the arrangement, and graciously welcoming to Sarah.

So, why did she feel like she sat at the center of a very large spider web built of stone and mortar?

With a start, she realised she had drifted off into musing, and resumed spooning her soup, her boots restless against the stone paving floor. Rachel watched her, her own spoon laid to rest on a gold-rimmed plate with a small _clink_ that echoed off the narrow arched windows.

She didn’t seem to eat much, Sarah thought.

Maybe that’s why she looks so _hungry_ all the time.

Her lips parted - they were so red, as if all the colour that should have been in her cheeks had been sucked into her mouth - and Sarah saw her teeth, and her eyes skittered away, refusing to witness.

She continued to eat, trying to drown the coiled fear deep in her stomach, and to still the skin on the back of her neck that twitched like a fly’s wings. 

⚜⚜⚜

_Running through the dark hallways chased by something terrible and ancient and made of teeth running running through a doorway and slam it shut fangs shining in the dark in front of her and the howling all around_

⚜⚜⚜

After the soup had come fish, the glistening rainbow trout’s eye staring balefully at Sarah. She wrinkled her nose slightly and looked up. The Countess was also staring at her. When Sarah dragged her gaze away, looking around desperately, the portrait above the huge fireplace pinned her down with another set of eyes: Rachel in red satin and a throatful of pearls, the painted eyes glowing amber in the candlelight.

A lone wolf howled somewhere in the distance. The pack responded, and Sarah shifted in her seat, tapped her fork on the plate nervously. The Countess’s eyes flicked to the window, and she seemed to be listening to the animals.

“The children of the night,” she said unconcernedly, picking out a piece of silverware from the array. “What _music_ they make.”

The Countess popped the eye out of the fish with a tiny fork, and a smirk, and swallowed it whole.

Sarah barely had an appetite left by the time the meat course was served. She poked at the thinly sliced venison with her fork and watched the blood seep out. At the other end of the table, Rachel made short work of the small serving on her plate, the raw-looking slivers disappearing between her red lips.

So she _does_ eat, Sarah thought, although she also noted that the...that _Rachel_ still looked hungry. In fact, the longer she stared at Sarah, the hungrier she appeared.

Under the table, her leg jittered. She continued to push food around her plate, took a few bites of the baked potato. It melted in her mouth. She couldn’t fault the cooking, at least.

_I must ask one thing - my home is quite large, and you would find it quite easy to become lost if you wander in the night. There are areas that have regrettably fallen into disrepair and could be dangerous. I would ask, Sarah, that you don’t intrude too far._

The Countess tilted her head, looking nothing but concerned for the safety of her guest.

⚜⚜⚜

_The howling sounded like it came from outside the bedchamber door and Sarah bolted upright in bed, suddenly wide awake, throat rasping. Her scalp prickled as a high, thin scratching noise came from the window; as if a needle was being drawn across the glass._

⚜⚜⚜

Silence.

Light glimmered in between the curtains and she threw off the suddenly-too-heavy blankets and padded over to the window. It was daylight - in a grey and overcast way - and Sarah raked her hair back with her fingers, sighing.

Surely the skies had cleared at some point - the image of a pale, hungry moon peering in at her during the night hung in her mind - but for now the rain began falling in a fine mist, whispering against the windows like souls from a shipwreck.

_Bloody fool,_ she thought, _how can a moon be hungry_

She took breakfast alone at the same long table.

There was good strong tea, and fresh bread and cheese and pastries arranged on silver platters. There was a sense of movement around the castle, in direct opposition to the heavy silence of the night before, and Sarah began to relax a little. Packing needed to be done for the eventual trip to England, she assumed.

As she gulped down the tea, her gaze kept returning to the portrait that loomed over the room. The blonde hair and Rachel’s pale, pale skin were the only points of light under the varnish that looked centuries old.

Sarah squinted. The suggestion of age must be a result of the grey sunlight struggling through the windows, and the seemingly old-fashioned red gown the Countess wore could be the latest style in this country, for all she knew.

She pulled at her own collar, and straightened her waistcoat.

Someone cleared their throat at her elbow. Sarah jumped, and swore as tea splashed onto the table.

The young maid blushed as she attended to the spill, informing her that she was free to go anywhere she liked in the grounds, and that the Countess would meet her in the Library for tea at four of the clock. Her eyes kept flitting upwards, and she fiddled with the high neck of her dress as if it scratched at her skin. The Countess was _not_ to be disturbed during the _day_ , she had added, with one last glance at the ceiling.

Sarah gave her a crooked smile, trying to make her feel at ease. She wasn’t used to being waited on, herself, but she supposed an estate as large as this one required a staff to match.

The rain was unceasing, and so she snagged an apple and spent some time rambling around the castle.

Room after room after room, exquisitely furnished in every conceivable style. Room after room after room, and in every one a portrait of the Countess, her presence constant, the colour and style of her gowns changing to match whatever decor it hung in. But always, always, the same pale beautiful face, the same smooth blonde hair, the same red lips with the slightest curve. Her eyes would follow Sarah as she moved across the room, then meet her again in the next one.

When she heard a clock somewhere strike four times, she startled. Surely it had been only an hour or so since breakfast…

When Sarah found the library, the shadows were long, and the Countess perched on a deep crimson sofa, hands pale and folded in her ivory lap, the severe lines of the satin covering her from throat to wrists, with skirts spreading out like a rose in full bloom. She flashed a smile of knives, and Sarah blindly found an armchair and tried to stop her knees from shaking.

Rachel, as she insisted on again, poured tea for Sarah from a large silver pot, and waved a languid hand at the stand of delicately iced cakes and tiny sandwiches. As Sarah’s hand hovered over the plates, half-forgotten fairytales warning of the food of the Fey drifted through her mind.

Rachel’s own tea brewed in a smaller teapot made of translucent white jade, the reddish liquid trickling into a matching cup. They were both delicately engraved with some sort of - Sarah squinted - serpent, whose coils appeared to move as the cup filled.

_A herbal remedy_ , she sighed, one finger crooked elegantly through the handle. Her eyes flitted to the heavily veiled windows and back. _This...sensitivity to light is common in my...bloodline._

Sarah, her mouth full of teacake, made a sympathetic sound. The Countess smiled, sweetly, close-mouthed, and cast her eyes down, the shadow of her lashes impossibly long on her pale cheeks.

And so the pieces slowly fit together. The Countess intended to spend some time in the more hospitable climes of England in hope of alleviating her afflictions, hence the purchase of property that Sarah was here to finalize.

It appeared she was the last of her family line, with no one to pass her vast estate onto, and when Sarah ventured that travel to England included the possibility of hunting for a suitable husband, Rachel arched an eyebrow and exhaled what could have been a laugh.

“And you, Sarah,” The sibilant sound of her name in Rachel’s mouth made her shift in her chair. “Do you have a...suitor waiting for you back home?”

_Not the marryin’ kind_ , she muttered, feeling greenish-amber eyes linger on her. When she looked up to meet them, she found herself unable to look away, the surrounding shadows sliding closer until her entire world existed of nothing but those eyes, and all she could think of was a fly struggling in a pool of syrup.

Sarah blinked.

A strange atmosphere seeped out of the room

The taste of tea lingered smokey on her tongue and Sarah realised her cup was empty. She frowned at the tall cabinet clock standing guard by the door.

Over two hours had passed. But…

Rachel stood, smoothing a pale hand down her bodice, murmuring about dressing for dinner. Sarah hurriedly got to her feet, her teacup clattering back on the saucer.

After the Countess had swept out of the room, skirts billowing like clouds, Sarah rubbed her forehead. What _had_ they been discussing?

⚜⚜⚜

_Running through the dark hallways chased by something terrible and ancient and made of teeth but she was running slower and slower, wanting to be caught, chancing a backwards glance to see the white face looming out of the inky air, lips red, teeth sharp, eyes hungry_

⚜⚜⚜ 

Again, at dinner it was just the two of them, but instead of being separated by the length of the table, Sarah’s place had been laid at Rachel’s left hand side. Being so close to the other woman made her skin shiver, and it wasn’t entirely due to fear.

Again, it was silent beyond the clink of silverware on china, and when Sarah hesitantly queried after the staff, the Countess lifted one white shoulder in an elegant shrug and murmured something about village superstitions and old wives tales.

_We are quite...alone, at night, I’m afraid_ , she finished, looking positively pleased at the prospect. Sarah found herself quite distracted by the way she ran a silver fingernail back and forth along her collarbone, sharply exposed above a low-cut black gown, and the way the candlelight glimmered over her skin. Too distracted to wonder why the woman had paused before the word ‘alone’. When the Countess smiled at her, lips parted, her teeth gleamed like pearls. Sarah had watched her mouth open with some trepidation - then found herself vaguely confused. Rachel’s teeth were perfectly normal.

Why would they be otherwise?

The Countess again ate little, but offered up little morsels of conversation as dinner progressed. Local history, political intrigue abroad…Sarah listened, nodded, her eyes fascinated by the languidly elegant movement of the hands as they wielded the varied and gleaming pieces of cutlery. The refined accent, a product - she informed Sarah - of years studying under the finest tutors Europe and England had to offer, wove a glittering fabric of world-wide travel and and influence at the highest levels, in an oddly intimate way.

Sarah would have sneered at any of the high society women back home if they’d tried to impress her with tales like this, the hunger and chaotic emptiness that had marked her own upbringing still simmering underneath her skin and the piercingly posh voices setting her teeth on edge. But the Countess - but Rachel - was so clearly and naturally born to this life that Sarah found herself drinking in every syllable.

Her feet still occasionally tapped at the floor, or wound around the chair legs, but the urge to run had shrunk down to a tiny thin voice she could barely hear.

The dinner seemed to be over far too soon, but the two lingered over the digestif, sitting in front of the great stone fireplace in plush velvet armchairs. The Countess had taken port wine, rich and red, and deftly mixed it at the sideboard with ingredients from a row of fine porcelain bowls to make what she called a _sangaree, from the Americas, one of the few things of worth they have produced so far, I’m afraid._

The cracked ice rattled against the glass, her hand trembling slightly as she took it from Rachel’s and fingertips touched. The drink was dark and tart and spicy all at once, sliding down her throat and warming her insides even more than the fire. The flames gave the Countess’s eyes a golden glow as she studied Sarah over her glass. Taking a tiny sip, she looked pleased and nodded before lowering the glass.

“And what of _you_ , Sarah,” she asked, tilting her head to the side like a bird. The tip of her tongue darted out to catch a drop of sangaree on her lower lip.

“Uh,” Sarah said blankly, and glanced away into the fire, hoping the heat was covering the flush she felt rising up her neck, before gulping another mouthful.

Rachel curved her lips.

“How did you come to a position in the law?” Her eyes narrowed. “Forgive my candour, but you were not _born_ into privilege. It could not have been...easy for you.”

Sarah blinked, feeling the old resentment begin to rise up and taking another sip to wash it down.

“It wasn’t,” she admitted through gritted teeth. When she met that golden gaze again, the edge of anger dulled and she found herself opening up in a way she rarely had. Part of her sat in the back of her mind, baffled, as she talked about the orphanage, the sharpness of hunger, the bite of cold, the complete and utter loneliness.

The Countess continued to study Sarah’s face, unblinking.

"We are not so different then, you and I, Sarah," she said with an air of melancholy, "Both all alone in this world."

She’d been nothing more than a common pickpocket when she’d lucked into a messenger job - running herself ragged all across London for coin. Better than ending up in the nick.

“I was fast,” Sarah half-boasted, draining her glass, “Always delivered. Got to running errands for this law firm, and - ” She bent forward to place the empty glass on the low wooden table that sat between them, carved with complex curves of vines and thorns.

Rachel leaned forward at the same time, touching the back of Sarah’s hand with slim white fingers. Despite the heat of the fire, her skin was still cool.

“And here you are,” she said softly.

“Here I am,” Sarah echoed, all semblance of intelligent thought vanished until the Countess removed her hand and then, to her own horrified surprise, she heard herself continue talking. “No one else wanted to travel all this way. Especially after what happened to Mr Renfield. So they sent me to do all the paperwork an’ that…”

She bit her lip and ran a hand through her hair, only now realizing she had neglected to tie it back before dinner. It tangled around her shirt collar, which was feeling entirely too tight.

The Countess pursed her lips.

“Oh...yes,” she murmured. “An unfortunate accident. The roads can be _so_ treacherous in winter.”

“I mean. Obviously they...we...value you...your…” Sarah shut her eyes and cringed at her own stammering. What the hell was wrong with her? The truth was, the men in the firm had called the Countess ‘eccentric’, or worse, _unnatural_ , and always with a hint of fear in their voices. She had also heard the rumours about what had _really_ happened to Renfield - lawyers gossiped more than the old women down the pub, and since his body had not yet been found... _they say she saps the souls of men, they say she’s some sort of monster_

She opened her eyes again at the sound of the Countess laughing lightly, the sound seeming to float up to the shadowy rafters.

Sarah thought it was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard.

When the Countess insisted on escorting her to her bedroom door, one hand curled around Sarah’s elbow, and the other holding a lamp that glowed like a miniature moon, Sarah walked along in an almost-daze. From the corner of her eye, something nagged at her like a sore tooth (teeth?), but if she turned her head, all she could see was that porcelain profile, or the pale shoulders that occasionally brushed against the thin cotton of her shirt-sleeves.

She didn’t remember taking her jacket off, but here it was hanging over her other arm, so she must have. Frowning, she awkwardly lifted her hand to her throat and found her collar loosened as well.

 _Must have been the sangaree,_ she thought _, and the fire, got overheated or somethin’_

“Well,” intoned the Countess, and stood back as Sarah fumbled with the doorknob, every moment her back was turned filled with images of (great white sharks moving slowly through the depths)(red lips and silver nails). The door creaked open and the bed seemed very far away, white linen glowing in the moonlight. She suddenly felt exhausted and stumbled forwards.

“Sweet dreams,” she heard Rachel say from somewhere very far behind her.

The door clicked shut and there was silence.

⚜⚜⚜

_Running through the dark hallways, laughing breathlessly, down the stairs, all the way down, laughter echoed back at her from three sides, shadows reaching, sighing, spinning her around and around and around and_

⚜⚜⚜

Silence.

No...not silence. Just on the edge of hearing was laughter, like bells calling the faithful to worship. Sarah sat bolt upright in the wide, rumpled bed and rubbed at her face. The moon still shone but lower, and the room was full of palely glimmering light. She’d been so tired she hadn’t even drawn the curtains before falling into bed.

Throwing back the covers, she slid over to the edge and put her feet hesitatingly on the floor.

Nothing grabbed her ankles, so she stood and pulled at her nightshirt where it had twisted around her neck. It was sensible flannel, and warm, but she would never get used to sleeping clothed.

 _Bloody stupid thing_ , she muttered, and then froze as she heard the far-off laughter chiming again.

 _We are quite alone at night,_ she heard the Countess say, and frowned. She glanced over at the window as a howl went up somewhere outside, and thought about wolves and their teeth. The forest crowded around the estate, but the grounds were large and the walls high. Padding across the room, she put her ear to the door and listened.

Nothing.

She carefully pulled the door open and stuck her head out into the hallway.

The castle seemed as dark and still as the grave. And then -

_sssssssssarahhhh_

_Bugger this for a game of soldiers_ , thought Sarah, turning back, shutting the door, locking it, and marching right back to bed.

Or at least, that’s what she _wanted_ to do, but for some reason her feet, bare and already cold, led her away from the solid wooden door, and towards the whispers drifting up the stairs. She tried to grip the bannister and stop herself but her palm merely slid over the dark polished wood.

It smelled faintly of beeswax and lavender.

At the bottom of the stairs, she hesitated, lost in the shadows and slivers of moonlight that made the main hall look like every item of furniture had moved itself around while she slept.

_ssssaraahhhh_

There was a beat of silence, and then the laughter chimed in again. Sarah shivered, desperately wanting to turn around and run back to the pile of thick, soft blankets, but again her feet betrayed her, leading her over soft silken rugs and cold smooth marble, onto the hard stone of the narrower passageways that the servants used in the daytime. She could reach out on both sides and touch the walls now, the stone feeling ancient and somehow alive.

Directly ahead, she could just make out a gate that was composed entirely of curlicues, the silver gleaming dully in what little light there was. Fridgid air bit at her feet and she tried to rub them against each other.

A vague memory of Dante and the circle of hell that was made out of ice drifted through her mind, and was gone. _Must be the cellars_ , she thought, _place this big, they’d go on for miles…._

There was a sturdy silver lock and a large silver key. Sarah squinted at the design, the way the spirals were tighter in the centre, and the realization arrived slowly in her brain that it was impossible to reach the key from _inside_ the gate. Then she shook her head, the tangle of her hair falling around her face.

 _Just a gate_ , she told herself, _don’t be daft, no need to go traipsin’ around damp cellars in the middle of the night and catch yer death…_

Her feet felt frozen to the flagstones and then ice trickled down her spine as a soft giggle echoed from below and crept through the twisting silver.

Sarah tried to speak with a mouth gone dry.

“Rachel?”

_Come, Sssarrrraaahhhh_

Her legs shook, but her hand lifted dreamily and turned the key and then the gate was open and she was walking down a narrow spiraling staircase of stone. Light flickered and danced across the the walls that felt like they were closing in on her but she couldn’t see where it was coming from.

 _Why the hell am I doing this,_ the small voice in the back of her head hissed. _Maybe it’s just a dream, I’m just dreaming, I’m -_

Around and around and then she was finally at the base of the staircase. A torch flickered and danced in a wall sconce beside her, and another, and another, seeming to line the walls as far as she could see. Arched openings gaped at intervals on either side, the flames only giving the shadows more substance. Sarah stepped forward and the darkness in front of her seemed to stretch out like taffy.

_I’m dreamin’, this is definitely a_

Her bare foot touched something stiff and velvety-rough, and she made a strangled _unngf_ noise. Whatever it was didn't move or make a sound, and as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Sarah bent down and studied the sad little shape.

A rat, nothing more than a small bag of bones, teeth sticking out of skin that looked like parchment. There were more of them scattered around the cold dark floor, dozens, hundreds.

There was a sound behind her.

She spun around but there was nothing there.

Another sound.

Another. A sigh of breath on her neck.

_Ssssarahhh_

Sarah clenched her fists, refusing to keep twisting in place.

“Who’s there,” she said loudly, her voice rough with fear. “Wot the bloody hell you playin’ at?”

_We get so lonely, Sssarah_ , the shadows whispered all around her.

_She left us here, Sssarah_

_sssstay with us, Sssarah_

There was a tug on her hair, and she ducked away, slapping her hands at nothing

“Who _are_ you,” she snapped, fear giving way to anger. The words echoed back at her. Then she shrugged, and turned to find her way back to the staircase, and almost fell backwards as a woman stepped out of the nearest archway and smiled at Sarah with entirely too many teeth.

She was tall, and pale, so pale that her face appeared to float above the flowing gown that might have been white once. Hands, bloodless and sharp-nailed, reached out. The torchlight flickered over her face and reflected in her eyes, pupils glowing red.

“Bloody hell,” Sarah gasped, her heartbeat pounding through her ears.

_Yesss,_ the woman breathed and took another step closer

_Sssarah_

Her head jerked to the left.

_Sssarah_

Her head jerked to the right.

Two more women had moved into space behind her, their white faces and red eyes and sharp nails and their teeth, god, their _teeth_...

She was surrounded and blocked off from the way out, the only way out she knew of, and the panic started to rise up her throat. _If this is a dream, I want to wake up right now_ , she thought, and that chiming laughter rang out all around her.

_No dream, Sssarah_ , hissed one, gliding closer, so close that Sarah could smell damp earth and see the stains on her gown. Her brain stuttered and she turned in a tight circle. The three of them encircled her, all smelling of dirt, and with dark hair that hung down to their waists. They were beautiful, nonetheless, as beautiful as the pale, cold moon, and Sarah struggled to breathe.

_Sssarah, look_ -

And she did. And suddenly she wasn’t angry anymore, or frightened.

“Oh,” she said, wonderingly. The were lonely, so beautiful and so _lonely_ , and as they moved closer and closer, she forgot about the freezing stone beneath her bare feet, feeling a strange warmth rise up her body, as if her blood was slowly coming to the boil. Cold hands brushed her hair back from her neck. Cold arms slipped around her waist, cold cheeks pressed against her own, cold fingers trailed up her ribcage and over her breasts and around her hips, the thick fabric no guard against the chill of them.

Cold lips met the soft skin behind her ears, and the sound coming out of her throat as two mouths worked their way down her neck was swallowed up by the third set of lips as one of the women kissed her. All three of them were pressed up against her now, soft and although she could feel the cold emanating from them, it only made her feel more heated. When double rows of needles scratched at her neck, a shudder moved up the entire centre of her and she sighed into the sharp mouth on hers.

Sarah had been here in this mass of bodies forever and she never wanted to leave. Why would she? She was safe here, wanted, _needed_. All she wanted was to be devoured until there was nothing left of her, and -

She slowly became aware of a low sibilant noise, like a cat spitting a warning, and she blinked, confused, suddenly cold again as the lips on her disappeared. The arms holding her tensed, digging nails into her wrists and shoulders, before reluctantly loosening and pulling away.

_Mine_ , hissed a familiar voice. _Mine_.

When the world swam into focus again, Sarah had the impression of time working backwards, three white faces disappearing back into the shadows, teeth flashing at the last.

Her own teeth began to chatter, her feet numb, and as her knees buckled, there was a swift movement of blonde hair and ivory silk, and arms strong as steel caught her before she could hit the flagstones.

_Foolish girl._ The voice was angry and tender all at once, and Sarah felt guilt and gratitude crawl up her spine. The arms picked her up as though she was light as a feather, cradling her, and she felt a hand smooth the hair back from her forehead. Cool fingers touched her face, lingered on her lips. The voice said, _sleep,_ and Sarah fell into the darkness.

⚜⚜⚜

_Empty darkness, dreamless sleep_

⚜⚜⚜

Sarah woke slowly the next morning. She could feel the softness of her nightshirt against her skin and the weight of the bed covers, and hear a multitude of birds making merry outside her window, all before she even opened her eyes. Something surfaced in the depths of her mind, pale and cold and shining, but then it was gone again.

_Mmfff_ , she mumbled and pulled herself up, rubbing at her face. After she bathed and got dressed, she looked at herself in the large oval mirror at the dressing table. All the furniture was old, carved out of heavy wood. Sarah couldn’t imagine anyone ever being able to carry it up those stairs. She buttoned her shirt slowly, trying to recall her dreams.

Her reflection looked back at her. When she pulled her hair back, twisting it off her neck, something caught her eye. She tilted her head from side to side, and touched her fingers to the long shallow scratches on either side of her throat.

They stung a little, and she stared at herself, racking her brain for an explanation, but all she could come up with was...rats? She scowled at the mirror. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d shared a bed with rats in her life, but somehow Sarah couldn’t imagine someone as fastidious in appearance as Rachel allowing rodents to roam free around her castle.

Breakfast was laid out again, although Sarah couldn’t muster up appetite for much more than strong tea, and a lot of it. The windows in the dining room were full of the same grey light as yesterday, and the day before that, but her eyes seemed to have adjusted to the constant gloom. It had been dusk when she had arrived, and raining since - from what she had seen of the grounds through the drizzle and mist, the gardens were beautifully and painstakingly kept, but it didn’t seem like the weather allowed for much exploration.

The sensation of being trapped rankled at her, despite the size of her cage, and she resolved to get out for a walk anyway. She was bloody British, a little rain couldn’t hurt her.

After picking at a small plum tart, the the jelly oozing out like blood from a papercut and making her queasy, Sarah wandered through the main hall, into a long sitting room (the Countess smirked at her from an ornate gold frame, the deep purple of her gown dipping low at the front, fox-fur collar rising to frame her blonde hair), through the door at the other end into what appeared to be a music room. A grand piano sat in one corner, Sarah a dark shape moving across its glossy white surface; a golden harp gleamed opposite, (the Countess watched her circle the soft ivory carpet with heavy-lidded eyes, her high-necked gown the colour of fresh cream.)

Sarah let her fingers run along the harp strings, a few notes shivering through the silence. She pictured the Countess pressed up against it, her head tucked to one side and those silver nails flashing as they plucked angelic sounds out of a piece of metal and catgut. Her lips twitched into a smile at the image.

The soft rain outside the heavily curtained window changed from a whisper into a hissing roar, and Sarah’s smile faded. She absent-mindedly rubbed at the scratches on her neck and crossed the room to the next door, which she assumed would lead back out into the main hallway. Instead, she found herself in a kind of alcove, tiled from floor to shoulder height in black and white. It was like stepping into a chessboard. When she blinked, she could still see the monochromatic squares dancing on her eyelids.

The door ahead of her was flanked by two large urns, deep green ivy spilling out of them, trailing down to the tiled floor, and reaching tendrils towards the circle of frosted glass in the doors centre. It reminded Sarah of the moon, beautiful and cold and...lonely.

Unease rippled down her spine, then she snorted at herself. Lonely bloody moon! Being cooped up inside all the time was making her stir crazy. As the sound of her boots tapping against the tiles echoed back at her, a shadow flitted across the glass circle and she stiffened.

“Hello?” She reached out and grabbed the door handle, a great big brass knob with a snarling lions head engraved on it. It was cold under her palm, and she could feel the teeth. She pushed the door open warily. “Countess?”

The rain was suddenly deafening and when Sarah looked up, she saw why. This was a greenhouse. Gently curved glass panels rose high above her, and the raindrops bounced off to become a multitude of tiny steams coursing downwards. The dim daylight rippled across what must have been hundreds of plants - on tables, on shelves, on the floor, hanging from the metal frame of the roof itself. The other end of the greenhouse wasn’t even visible though the leaves and flowers and branches. The only sound was the rain.

Sarah stepped inside.

One shelf sat close to the door, apart from the others, holding barely half a dozen pots of white china that gleamed in the gloom. Sarah bent over slightly to examine the weird spindly leaves, a finger not-quite-touching the creamy white flower that resembled an odd little leaping creature. Orchids?

She knew next than nothing about flowers but even she could sense these were somehow special.

She straightened up _._ Wandering in further, she found a round pool dotted with water lilies. The sound of the rain had eased into a gentle drumming against the glass. There was a large black crate sitting in a clear space past the pool. The lid had been pushed to one side, exposing what looked like...dirt. Sarah shrugged. Probably the Countess was taking some of her garden with her.

There was a series of metallic clicks, followed by a hissing noise that got closer and closer, and Sarah jumped slightly, bumping into a fern. The leaves shivered. She felt dampness on her cheeks, wiped her hand across her face, and looked up.

Water sprayed downwards in a fine mist from thin pipes set into the frame of the roof.

“Huh,” Sarah muttered, stepping sidewards until she was out of the waters reach. She raked her fingers through her hair, scowling. It was going to frizz up now. But she lingered anyway, feeling too restless to go back in the castle proper. The air was beginning to smell like a garden after rain, fresh and green, and Sarah inhaled deeply.

The scent of damp earth crawled into her nostrils on the next breath and she gagged. Her back pressed up against something soft and she spun around, striking out at some palm fronds in a blind panic. She could feel the scratches on her neck began to throb.

The taste of wet dirt filled her mouth and she blundered through the rows of plants, slapping large leathery leaves and wandering vines out of her face, drops of water splashing everywhere. Her hair fell in damp tangled strands around her neck and she couldn’t find the door and -

Hands reached out of the shadows and grabbed her by the wrists.

Sarah let out a sound somewhere between a scream and a curse, trying to yank her hands out of what felt like a marble vice.

“Sarah,” a voice said soothingly. “Are you _quite_ all right, my dear?”

She blinked and found herself embarrassingly close to the Countess, who was looking at her with an expression perfectly balanced between concern and amusement. A half-hearted attempt to free her hands only served to make the amusement more pronounced. Sarah’s feet still told her to run, heart pounding in her chest like she already had been.

“There was...someone…” her voice trailed off, and she looked at the floor, feeling a fool.

Red lips pursed as icy fingers crept around her wrists and lingered on the pulse points. The blonde head tilted slightly.

“Hmm. I believe you need to come sit before the fire, Sarah. What a terrible host I would be if I allowed you to fall ill.” She held onto both of Sarah’s hands with one of her own, placing the other palm on her flushed cheek. Sarah started at the icy touch, but the coolness felt pleasant against the heat in her face and so, daringly, she leaned into Rachel’s hand. When she glanced up, the Countess was regarding her with eyes that were far greener than Sarah remembered.

The hand lingered on her cheek for a beat longer than mere polite concern warranted.

“I’ll send for tea early today,” she stated, and turned. The ivory lace of her gown dipped enough at the back to show shoulder blades under flawlessly pale skin. Sarah stared, bit her lip. At some point the watering system had turned off, leaving only the sound of the rain and a steady drip-drip-drip from every corner of the greenhouse.

The Countess paused with one hand on the lion’s head and turned back to hold out a slender pale arm, fingers outstretched invitingly.

“Are you coming, Sarah?” Her voice was low, and her gaze direct.

Sarah swallowed, and took the Countesses hand.

⚜⚜⚜

_Standing in the darkened corridor, wolves howling below, cold hands sliding around her eyes and cold lips sliding down her throat and a cold voice whispering ‘mine’ into her ear and the wolves ever closer_

⚜⚜⚜

The morning was almost gone by the time Sarah awoke, arms wrapped around a pillow. She rolled over and stared at the ornate plasterwork on the ceiling. The curtains had been left open again but they may as well have been closed - the clouds that crowded the sky were inky and swollen with rain. Thunder rumbled in the distance like a cat purring.

The previous night was somewhat of a blur.

Rachel had escorted her to a room that she hadn’t seen before, despite all her wandering, sat her on a sofa in front of a roaring fire, and ordered her not to move. Then there was tea, with an array of delicate sandwiches to go with it. Even a fresh shirt and vest was brought down from her rooms, and her damp ones taken away to be laundered.

Sarah had felt those gold-green eyes on her as she peeled off her shirt. At least her undershirt was clean, if a little shabby. She’d hunched her shoulders over anyway, sure the Countess was smirking at the lack of lace and silk. When she looked up, however, Rachel wasn’t smirking at all.

She had looked at Sarah like she was a meal to be savoured, perching herself on the sofa just inches away, and Sarah’s fingers fumbled on the top button. Those eyes, less green now in the firelight, travelled slowly down Sarah’s throat and stopped at her collarbone. Darting forward like a bird, her hands had deftly undone the button and adjusted the shirt collar so it lay flat, pointing outwards.

“There,” she had purred, smoothing the thin white linen with the tips of her pale fingers, “ _la_ _moda_.” Her skin burned like ice. A finger touched Sarah beneath the chin, tilting her head up so their eyes met. Sarah stared into eyes that now seemed to be all pupil and tiny dancing flames.

Red lips parted slightly. Teeth gleamed.

Then she had sat back, given Sarah a coy smile, and set about pouring the tea.

They had talked - they must have done, Sarah thought. They must have talked until dinner was served, must have made their way from the parlour to the dining room, must have eaten, must have...all she could really remember was Rachel looking at her like she was fascinating.

All she could think about was how _beautiful_ the other woman was. How much she wanted those cold fingers to touch her again, and in all sorts of places.

Letting out a huge sigh, Sarah got up, pulling at her nightshirt on the way to the window. It wasn’t raining yet, but the sky was getting even darker. She shuffled through the sheaf of papers on the desk. Just one final signature was needed on the deeds, and then - she frowned, looking at the dates on the letters and forms.

The coach would be collecting her tomorrow.

She chewed at her lip, staring out the window but not noticing the rain that had begun to fall. The prospect of leaving the castle, alone, lodged a hard stone of despair in her gut. _Don’t be daft_ , she muttered to herself. The Countess would be in England within months, possibly weeks. If the climate proved beneficial, she would stay. They could…

_But she won’t need you around anymore, will she? She’ll have the whole of Society to play with and you’re just a clerk, deliverin’ papers and runnin’ errands. You seriously think she’ll have time for you back home? It’ll be all fancy luncheons and society balls for her, and back to bar fights for you.  
_

The terrible image of Rachel dancing with one of those sneering gentlemen of the upper crust, his sweaty hands on her waist, made her fists itch, and she threw the papers onto the huge Persian rug and stomped off to bathe and dress.

The rest of the daylight hours were spent with Sarah rattling around the castle, unable to keep still. Packing crates lay in odd corners. At one point, she returned to her room to collect the papers she needed, grinning humorlessly at the mess she had left. Outside her room, she hesitated, turning to look at the flight of stairs that led upwards to the upper floors.

To Rachel’s rooms.

Sarah placed a hand on the newel and stared upwards, one boot bouncing up and down on the bottom step. Grey clouds turned the huge stained glass window above the landing into a muted light show. There was only silence from above. She rapped her knuckles against the polished wood a few times, considering, then made her way downstairs again.

When afternoon tea rolled around, Sarah was already in the library, poking disinterestedly at the bookshelves. She’d never seen so many books in one place, not even in the law offices. They were meticulously arranged by subject and author, but when the doors opened and the Countess swept in, the book in her hands was shoved into the nearest spot and she turned, raking her hair back.

Rachel sat on the sofa and arranged her skirts to one side, bestowing a small red smile on Sarah as she patted the cushion next to her. Sarah’s legs jittered all the way up to her spine - and places in-between - but she managed the few steps without tripping over her own feet.

A few maids timidly followed to carefully place the teapots and cups on the table, along with the small tower of pastries and fruit tarts, hovering until a white hand dismissed them with a languid wave. Their footsteps hurried away until it was just the two of them again.

The fire crackled behind the grate. Rain tapped against the window.

Rachel filled their cups. Sarah fidgeted until the Countess laid cool fingers on her wrist, handing her a teacup. Steam rose and she breathed it in, trying to calm her nerves.

Rachel studied her over her own cup, the serpent curled around it with mouth open wide. A tiny line appeared between her eyebrows.

“I must have kept you up _far_ too late last night, Sarah. You seem...tired.” She sipped at the deep red liquid, briefly closing her eyes to savour the taste.

Sarah lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

“No, I’m...fine,” she mumbled, drinking half her tea in one swill. “I was. Uh.” She jerked her head towards the desk. “I just need your signature on one last document. Ma’am,” she added miserably.

An eyebrow arched delicately.

“So _formal_ , Sarah. And after we’ve become so...well acquainted,” Rachel admonished gently. She placed her cup back in its saucer with barely a sound, then held up a pale hand, waiting. “Very well. Let us deal with business, and then…”

Sarah blinked at her, then shot up on her feet, putting down her own cup with a crash and taking Rachel’s hand. She seemed to rise to her feet with no effort at all, so fast that the embroidered white silk of her bodice was pressed against Sarah’s vest before she knew it, and she could smell something vaguely woody and exotic. Just at the tail end was a hint of dirt and Sarah’s hand flinched as the taste of it hit the back of her throat.

The delicate fingers of the Countess appeared to made of steel though, and she held onto Sarah tightly, baring her teeth so quickly that Sarah only caught a glimpse. _What big teeth you have,_ the words flashed through her head, and then were gone as she looked into Rachel’s eyes.

Today they were the colour of fresh honey again, with flecks of green.

Rachel signed the deed with a flourish, sitting at the wide polished desk with Sarah standing beside her.

“Swan,’ she murmured as she noticed Sarah looking at her quill. “There is a bevy out on the lake. Such a shame the weather has proved so _inhospitable_ this week.” She gave a theatrical sigh. “The gardens are exquisite.” The quill was twirled, silver nails flashing. “Did you know, Sarah, there are many a species of flowering plant that bloom at night?” She sighed again, wistfully this time, and replaced the quill in its ebony box. “Simple pleasures are often the _most_ rewarding. The scent of jasmine in the moonlight...” She looked up at Sarah through shadowy eyelashes. “...in pleasurable company.”

Sarah chewed at the inside of her bottom lip, staring at the drying ink. _She’s lonely, you’re here, that’s all it is, she’ll barely remember you next week._ She cleared her throat.

“You are now the owner of Carfax House,” she announced. Even she knew the property, it being one of the grandest residences in the most fashionable district of London, although she never been inside.

The Countess looked satisfied. She stood and slid her arm through Sarah’s.

“You must come to visit me, of course,” she said warmly, steering them both back to the comfort of the sofa. When they were seated, she turned her entire body towards Sarah, gazing earnestly. “Or perhaps I could come to call on _you_.”

Before she could stop it, Sarah snorted. The idea of Rachel, Countess Dracula, climbing the grimy stairs and stepping foot in the tiny set of rooms she rented seemed ridiculous. What’s more, she wouldn’t be able to bear the scorn - or worse, pity - that would surely show through that refined expression.

When she looked at Rachel, the honey of her eyes was soft. Understanding. Sarah felt her leg begin to bounce a little, until fingers pressed on her knee with a faint chill.

“Sarah.” Her voice was like honey too. “You _will_ allow me to visit, won’t you.” Her head tilted, hair glowing golden-red. Sarah sat still, not knowing where to put her own hands. Then she carefully placed her own hand atop of Rachel’s, her thumb tracing the smooth skin down to the wrist. She swore she heard the other woman _purr_ at the touch.

“My...home,” she said, “It’s not...like this.” Sarah looked around the library, with its soft carpet and opulent furnishings and glittering candles.

Rachel quirked her red mouth into a smile.

“Are you going to make me _beg_ for an invitation, Sarah,” she said, half laughing in a way that sent shivers down Sarah’s spine. Her hand moved infinitesimally up Sarah’s thigh.

“No...no, of course, you’re invited,” Sarah said hurriedly. “You’ll be...welcome.” The cold from the fingers on her thigh was burning through her trousers and into her skin.

“Wonderful.” Rachel uttered the word with an air of triumph. Her eyes glittered hungrily as they swept over Sarah, pausing at the spot where her jaw met her throat. Sarah couldn’t stop looking at that red, red mouth. _Red means danger. There was something she’d forgotten._ All she could feel was the hand on her thigh, and when she glanced up she met eyes that looked like honey poured over lava, and also like an invitation.

Sarah thought _damn it all to hell_ and leaned forward, wishing she hadn’t bothered with the tie today. It tugged on her neck but it didn’t matter at all, because she was kissing Rachel, and Rachel was kissing her back. A cold hand cupped her cheek and drew her closer, nails dug into her thigh. Sarah’s hands wavered for a moment before she curled them around the back of Rachel’s head, her fingers weaving into the smooth blonde hair.

She could feel sharpness nipping at her lips _danger_ but she didn’t care, running one hand down the curve of Rachel’s skull, onto the smooth skin of her neck _danger_ down to her shoulder. She wanted to lift the Countess up and onto her lap. She wanted to slowly peel the white silk off that pale skin. She wanted that cold hand on her thigh to go even higher. She wanted -

A sharp shock of pain made her jerk back.

When she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth it came away bloody. The tip of Rachel’s tongue swept across her red lips - slightly redder now - and she smiled with too many teeth. Sarah dug into her vest pocket for a hanky and dabbed it at her lower lip. When she looked at Rachel next, her expression had shifted to studiously contrite.

“It has been...a long time,” she murmured, brushing her knuckles against Sarah’s flushed cheek. “Forgive my...forwardness.” Her eyes flicked between eyes and lips, but otherwise she was restrained. Sarah couldn’t help but smile crookedly at her. Her lip stung.

Rachel bent forward very slowly, unblinking, and pressed her lips very softly against Sarah’s again. Sarah could feel the tip of her tongue gently lick at the cut on her lip, so tenderly that it was almost unbearable. Her heart thundered in her ears.

Then the Countess withdrew, eyes glowingly bright. The clock struck six of the clock, and she raised her eyebrows at Sarah in mock astonishment.

“Time is fleeting,” she said, and stood, shaking out her skirts, white birds flying on white silk. Sarah stood as well, her knees slightly shaky. “At dinner then.” Rachel touched her fingertips to Sarah’s face once more, as if unable to stop now that she’d started, and then disappeared in a rustle of silk.

Sarah ran a hand over her hair, unfastening the messy ponytail and shaking it out. She dropped back onto the sofa and grinned stupidly at the air for several minutes, making the cut on her lip sting. She didn’t want to think about how the sharpness of Rachel’s teeth had not only drew blood, but sent a bolt of lightning down to the centre of her.

She didn’t want to think about it. (It was all she could think about.)

When the Countess entered the dining room, pausing in the arched doorway, Sarah let out an involuntary sound. The gown she wore was striking against the gloomy corridor behind her - the eggshell-white skirt was covered in a convoluted pattern, all curlicues and lines in raised black velvet, putting Sarah in mind of an ornate cage. Or a gate. Something tugged at the back of her mind, something with teeth. It was shoved back into the darkness.

The bodice was solid black and fitted like a second skin around the curve of her breasts. There were no sleeves, or straps at all, and Sarah found it hard to think when she was looking at that expanse of pale skin.

A simple black ribbon curled around her neck.

 _A swan in human guise_ , Sarah found herself thinking, _a wolf in a fancy collar._ She watched as the Countess glided across the floor in a way that suggested her feet didn’t touch the ground, gracefully circling the gramophone that squatted beyond the sideboard and armchairs. Violin sang in a melancholy way from the flared silver trumpet and Rachel tilted her head. Even from across the room, Sarah could see the shadow of her eyelashes as she gazed downwards with a wistful air.

Then, she was mere inches away. Her eyes were dark gold in this light, and they took in Sarah slowly and surely, top to bottom. She’d left off her jacket and tie, fixing her collar open the way Rachel seemed to like it, and even combed her hair out so it fell in loose waves below her shoulders. The Countess seemed pleased.

“Sarah.” Her voice was soft. “Dance with me.”

Sarah took the proffered hand in a slight daze.

“You’re not hungry?” She glanced sideways at the long table and the multitude of silver covered dishes.

Rachel placed her other hand on Sarah’s waist and drew her close.

“Absolutely _ravenous_ ,” she breathed into Sarah’s ear, lips grazing her jawline.

Sarah felt something molten inside her spread through her entire body, and her hand found its way to Rachel’s bare shoulder. Her own skin hummed at the touch. Then they were flying around the room, deftly steered past tables and chairs and the fireplace, and back again. Sarah felt light as a feather in Rachel’s arms.

She threw her head back, growing dizzy as they spun around the rug, laughing. The music swelled to a crescendo as she stroked her fingers down the nape of Rachel’s neck. Rachel’s hand on her waist pulled her closer and as the music slowed, so did the dance until they were barely swaying in a sort of circle.

When the gramophone hissed to a stop, Sarah couldn’t stand it anymore and pulled Rachel’s face to hers. The kiss went on and on and on, until she felt something pressing against the back of her knees. When she opened her eyes, Rachel spun her around one more time, and then sat on the armchair and pulled Sarah down onto her lap with barely any effort.

The kiss grew deeper, Rachel sucking gently on her lip until it bled afresh, positioning her so she straddled the rustling skirt, twining her arms up and around Sarah’s back, her fingers curling in Sarah’s hair.

Sara felt pinned down like a butterfly, still alive and quivering but welcoming the touch of the aurelian. The red mouth of the Countess kissed its way down her neck and back up again, pausing occasionally to run her tongue over the skin. Her hands raked their way down Sarah’s back, curved around her hips and pressed _down,_ her own hips moving just enough to make contact. A stifled groan fell out of Sarah’s mouth, hands helplessly clawing at the chair arms as the thrumming in her ears matched the pulse between her legs; but not quite enough. Their mouths met again, Rachel licking her way in, teeth catching on soft flesh until the kiss tasted of blood.

Every nerve was on fire.

Suddenly, Rachel drew back, clasping Sarah’s face in her cold hands and leaning in so their foreheads met.

“Sarah,” she whispered, hungrily, _ravenously_ , “I want you.” Her fingers slid down, pressing against the pulse in Sarah’s throat as it raced away. Lower, against her heart, beating so fast Sarah thought it would break out of her chest and leap straight into Rachel’s hands.

 _She could eat it_ , she thought deliriously, _and I would be hers forever_

Rachels lips curved into a smile.

She pulled Sarah back to her, tracing her lips down her neck, pausing over a spot above the jugular. Sarah could feel the lips on her skin as they parted, she could feel a tongue licking her roughly, and then she could feel the points of two very sharp teeth dig in just enough to send a warm wave rippling through her. She grabbed at Rachel’s shoulders, felt the teeth pressing into her skin but not yet breaking it. She realised her hips were still moving.

“ _Rachel_ ,” she said hoarsely, and the other woman froze, then withdrew. She looked up at Sarah, eyes wide and unblinking like a cat, and tinged with crimson. Her mouth was open and now Sarah could see her teeth. All of them.

A wave of horror slowly washed over her, and receded. _They say she…_ She swallowed on a suddenly dry mouth.

“What,” she asked slowly, “ _really_ happened to Renfield?”

Rachel tilted her head to the side.

“Mr Renfield wandered down into the cellars,” she said softly, her hands motionless on Sarah’s back, the chill burning through layers of fabric.

Memories struggled to the surface of Sarah’s mind.

“So did I,” she said. She touched the scratches on her neck. _Foolish girl_ . “You...you _saved_ me from them.”

“Yes,” said Rachel simply. She began to very slowly stroke her thumbs up and down Sarah’s shoulder blades. _I should get up_ , thought Sarah, _I should go and lock myself in my room until the coach comes. I should_

But she didn’t want to.

She didn’t want to leave the Countess alone. She didn’t want the Countess to stop touching her. She didn’t want to -

She _wanted_ -

The horror she had felt was gone now, flowed away - although a little fear remained - and she looked at Rachel, who was still staring at her, waiting. Her own hands still held onto bare shoulders, and she slowly moved one to Rachel’s jawline, wrapping it around her throat with her thumb on the pulse point.

Where the pulse _should_ have been.

Rachel arched her neck into her hand, sighing.

“You’re impossible,” Sarah told her in a voice that shook only a very little. "A _monster_."

Rachel finally blinked.

“And yet,” she answered, placing cold fingers on Sarah’s cheek, “Here I am.”

Sarah stared at her another long moment.

“Here you are,” she said wonderingly, and kissed her. It was unbearably sweet, until it wasn’t, until they were clutching at each other like animals, fire and ice. When Rachel's mouth slid down over Sarah's throat again, she paused. Waiting. Until Sarah arched her neck, hair falling heavy down her back, and curled a hand over Rachel's spine.

“Rachel,” she whispered. She pushed down with her hips, steadying herself with one hand on the soft leather, the other pulling the blonde head closer.

She heard Rachel _growl_ , and then sharpness slid into her throat.

Sarah gasped, stiffened, fell through space. Her neck was burning and the warmth spread out from the ring of teeth, flowing through every part of her body, curling and twisting until it reached her core, and she dug her fingers into the chair, leather squeaking, as Rachel latched on and drew blood.

A wolf began to howl. As Sarah exploded into a thousand glittering stars, she realised it was coming from her own throat.

**Author's Note:**

> The tune they dance to near the end is [Sicilienne ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Un8oOS1Bi48) in E flat major, by Maria Theresia von Paradis (1759-1824)(an interesting Lady!)
> 
> I vaguely had [The Poison Sits](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BLIDX3nwbsI) in my head while writing this, in a 'plays over the end scene while the camera pans out to a high shot showing the entire dining room with the two of them locked in mortal embrace' type vibe...
> 
> _The poison sits_  
>  Just a little bit too close to you  
> Do I make you uncomfortable?  
> Does it suck the air out of you?  
> But I love you I do  
> And you love me too 
> 
> _The poison sits_  
>  Every part of it embraces you  
> Do you remember lonely too?  
> Oh how I’d be lost without you  
> And I love you I do  
> And you love me too


End file.
